


Salve

by Kittles123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittles123/pseuds/Kittles123
Summary: Jaime and Bronn are captured by the Dothraki horde on their way from Highgarden back to King's Landing.  Tyrion returns a favor and frees them, then sends them north to get their wounds tended too, both the physical and the mental ones :DSet post-episode 3 season 7 (including the released episode 4 trailer, but I have not seen any of the leaks of spoilers, so it's not going to go along with any of that).





	Salve

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short fic set post season 7 episode 3 (including the trailer for episode 4, so I'm just assuming Field of Fire 2.0 is a go). I have not watched or read any leaks, so this is not going to contain anything past what has officially aired :)
> 
> Basically a fluffy J/B reunion, no smut. I feel so bad for Jaime after episode 3, I needed to write something about it.
> 
> There is brief mention of rape in regards to Aerys/Rhaella.

Jaime sat on one side of the makeshift cell.  Bronn lay on the other end with his face pressed against the cold ground, jaw clenched as he silently clawed at the dirt.   His whole body shook.  The sellsword had taken the brunt of the flames, while just a portion of Jaime’s neck and back had been burned.  Somehow they had both survived charging a dragon head-on.  Their captors spoke only Dothraki, so Jaime’s pleas for milk of the poppy for Bronn fell on deaf ears.  There was nothing he could do for the man who had become his most trusted companion.  Nothing to do but watch him suffer.  Bronn’s injuries were so severe, he was like to die without the care of a Maester.

Somewhere in the darkness outside the wooden spikes that made up their cell, Jaime heard hoofbeats and then someone speaking in the Common Tongue.

“This man needs a Maester!” he growled into the blackness.  Then a torch appeared, carried low to the ground.

“Tyrion?” Jaime said dumbfounded as his brother waddled to the cell.

“Listen closely, Jaime, for time is short.  You are just outside Bitterbridge.  Go north, around the western side of the God’s Eye until you reach the Crossroads Inn.  A Maester will meet you there.”  Tyrion spoke fast and short, his breath coming in gasps.  He was more nervous than Jaime had ever seen him.  “Here, for Bronn,” he whispered and handed a flask through the bars.

“Thank you,” Jaime replied.  Bronn had not even lifted his head from the dirt.  Jaime knelt down and put the flask to the sellsword’s lips, and just the act of swallowing the liquid caused him great pain.

“Once that takes effect, go through the woods behind us.  There are horses for you about half a mile in.  No torches, it will give you away.”

Jaime nodded then stared at his little brother.  Surely this meant that the Dragon Queen had plans to execute him, otherwise Tyrion would not have risked it.

“Come with us,” Jaime said, already knowing it was impossible.

Tyrion shook his head.  “I’ve had too much a hand in creating this mess - I need to help undo it.  Stay safe, Jaime.  I love you.”

Jaime’s heart caught in his throat.  The look on Tyrion’s face reminded him of when Tyrion had been just a little boy, clinging to Jaime as his only friend in the world.

“You as well, brother.”

Tyrion nodded and handed Jaime a key.

 

A half an hour later, Bronn managed to drag himself to his feet.

“Fuck me,” he hissed between gritted teeth.

“Come on,” Jaime said.  He reached through the bars and unlocked the cell door, struggling for a moment with only one hand to do it.  They had been stripped of their armor and weapons, and one of the bloodriders had taken his golden hand as a trophy.  At least the Dothraki had not decided to take the flesh and blood one as well.  He urged Bronn to move fast and within moments they plunged into the darkness of the forest.  They moved silently aside from an occasional grunt or curse from Bronn.  Jaime was just beginning to wonder if the horses had run off when he heard a soft knicker ahead.  The forest opened up onto a game trail where two horses stood tied to a tree.

“Thank the bloody gods,” Jaime sighed.

“Aye, thought maybe your brother was fucking around with us.”  Bronn’s voice had an unusual lilt to it, the milk of the poppy was in full effect.  “You know where we are going?”

“Yes,” Jaime said as he climbed into the saddle.  He ran his hand down the horse’s neck and felt a pang of guilt at the death of his own destrier.  The poor beast did not survive the charge.

“I sure as hell hope so.”  Bronn climbed onto his own horse and nearly slid off the other side, only barely catching the pommel.  “I ‘ave no idea what the fuck is going on.”

 

They rode in complete darkness for hours.  The horses knew the trail and required little guidance.  Mosquitos bit at his skin and branches raked against his face and neck, and behind him Bronn hummed in the saddle, oblivious to all.  Jaime hoped it was only the milk of the poppy and that Bronn was not going into shock.

Finally the sun rose and drove away swarms of bugs and Jaime was able to get his bearings.  They were west of Tumbleton, and he could see the woodsmoke and rooftops on the horizon in the glare of the sunrise.  They would cross the Blackwater Rush before noon.

Unless Jaime turned eastward and made for King’s Landing.  He needed to get back to Cersei, but Bronn needed a Maester and with dragons and the Dothraki horde searching for him, it would be impossible.  But he needed to get back to Cersei.

“But why?” he asked aloud.

Bronn did not reply.  He was nodding in the saddle.

“Olenna Tyrell killed Joffrey,” Jaime continued.  “I never truly believed it had been Tyrion.”  But Cersei had been so sure.  He could still hear her voice, full of venom and rage, as she begged him to kill Tyrion.  But Cersei had wanted Tyrion dead since the day he was born.

“And what if I had been born the dwarf, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?”

Bronn muttered something unintelligible.

“She would despise me as well.”  She always proclaimed that Tyrion a monster that had killed their mother, as if he had done it maliciously, a premeditated murder.  Jaime would be just another monster in her eyes.  Certainly, she would not be spreading her thighs for him in the night.

She’d been full of rabid lust the last night they’d slept together.  She was all fire: consuming, demanding, unrelenting, even when he’d initially pushed her away.  But it was not Jaime that had turned her on.  Jaime suddenly felt he was a teenager again, standing guard outside Queen Rhaella’s chambers as King Aerys brutally raped her just beyond the door.  Fire and death were the only things that aroused him in the end, and his wife would emerge the next morning covered in bites and scratches that her ladies in waiting tried to cover up with scarves and inventive hairstyles.  Rhaella’s eyes were dead in those last years- she was a dead woman walking, resigned to her fate.

_She will be the end of you._

The Tyrell matriarch's final words rattled around in his brain.

They crossed the Blackwater Rush at noon.

 

When they reached the the Trident, the River Road was packed with people fleeing winter.  It was a mass exodus, a river of bodies moving out of the Neck.   _King’s Landing is no safer,_ he thought ruefully.  The faces of the men were gaunt and dirty, the women tired and sunken, but it was the children that gave him pause.  They shuffled along on tiny legs or bumped up and down on wagons or in their parents’ arms.  Their hair was unkempt, many an arm and leg covered in bug bites, and the ignorant joy of childhood stolen away.  Children were resilient, but even they had their limits.

“Where are we?” Bronn mumbled.

“Crossing the Trident.  We will be to the Crossroads soon.”  If the River Road was this crowded, Jaime hated to think what the King’s Road was like.  Jaime grabbed Bronn’s reins so as not to lose him in the crowd, then slipped into the swell of travelers.  He was dirty and nigh unrecognizable, and they both road nondescript packhorses, so he had no fear of being spotted.  But the sooner they were to the Crossroads, the better - Bronn was deteriorating and he had just drank the last of the milk of the poppy.

The Crossroads Inn was overrun with people.  Tents lined to roadside beginning a half mile away, and the inn itself was busting at the seams.  Lean-to shacks lined the southern whitestone wall and cook fires turned the air dark and smoky.  Jaime hobbled their horses on some trees behind the building.  There would be no room for them; he only hoped that this Maester was here.

“Wait here,” he said to Bronn who nodded limply.

Jaime shoved his way through the crowd gathered on the steps and managed to get inside.  It was blazing hot inside, and the burned skin on the back of his neck began to flare.  He looked around for anyone in a Maester’s robes, and then his eyes settled on a pair of people scanning the room.  One was short and bald in plain clothes, the other was tall and broad, dressed much the same except Jaime could see the shape of a sword beneath the cloak.  Then their eyes met, hers a piercing blue, and he felt a relief wash over him.   _Brienne._

She whispered something to the man next to her and he looked at Jaime as well.  She stood silently beside the man as Jaime approached, her eyes never leaving his, her face a blank slate betraying nothing.

“Brienne,” he said, paying no mind to the man.

“This is Maester Cellan,” she whispered.  “He is experienced in treating burns.”  Her eyes raked over his body, searching for his injuries.

“Bronn is outside, he needs it more than I,” Jaime murmured.

“You cannot bring him through the front - word has traveled about the dragon.  They would recognize his injuries,” the Maester said.  “Can he walk?  Bring him around back.  We have rooms in the northwest corner.  I’ll open the window.”

Jaime nodded, then looked at Brienne.  She was still watching him, almost as if she were seeing a ghost.  He wanted to tell her everything right there, spill his guts out to make the pain go away, but he didn’t.  Instead, he brought Bronn around back and helped him through the window.

 

“His wounds are extensive, but treatable.” the Maester said as he looked over Bronn’s torso.  The skin was milky white and weeping at the worst spots, a bright angry red on the periphery.  Bronn panted and bit down on his leather glove as the Maester continued to peel his shirt away.  Jaime’s undershirt, actually - Bronn’s had been burned away.  Jaime watched with an utmost respect for the man.  Most would have passed out from the pain by now.  The Maester had a fresh supply of milk of the poppy for him, but it had been too long since Bronn had finished the last of their flask, and he was waiting for it to kick in again.

“I need you to move to the room next door.  I’ve cleaned it - it’s as close to the Citadel standards as I can make it.  Infection must be avoided.”

Bronn growled as he stood, then staggered through the door that adjoined the rooms.

“How bad will it be?” Jaime asked.  Bronn would have never been out there if it weren’t for him.

“The healing process will be long, but the worst of it is over.  He needs rest and water and salt.  I will tend to him.  Now let me see your burns.”

Jaime sat and turned his back to the Maester.  The man inspected his neck and poked at the places his hair had been burned away at the back of his head.  Jaime winced a few times.  It felt like a very bad sunburn.

“Salve will be enough for you.  The skin is burned but not severely.”  The Maester handed him a jar of ointment.  “You did well to get him here, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime nodded and the Maester left he and Brienne alone.

“Give that here.  You won’t be able to reach,” she said as she shed her cloak.

Jaime handed her the jar.  “I’m told it’s not pretty.”

“You think I care what you bloody look like?” she asked.

But he saw her glance at him as he pulled his shirt off, and a hint of a blush crept up above the laces of her collar.  She washed her hands thoroughly, then sat down on the bed behind him and began to smooth the salve over his skin.  It was cool and had the consistency of jelly.  The burning sensation began to subside immediately, and he sighed and lowered his head.

“You charged a dragon,” she said.

“The bear pit worked out well enough, so I figured I’d give it a shot.”  Her hands were adept and precise as she worked the salve in.  Some strange part of his brain wished that she would take some pleasure in touching him this way, but she was all business.

“But this was not a bear, Jaime."

“Would that you were with me, perhaps I would have been a bit more successful.”

“An what is that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

“Nothing,” he lied.  When she was with him, everything seemed so clear.

“You’re the one who sent me away,” she said in a quieter voice.  Her fingers were starting to linger on his neck, rubbing down the sides of his spine.

“I should have come with you,” he said.  He did not even know of which parting he spoke, there was more than one, and each had been worse than the last.

“Your sister needed you.”

“My sister is a monster.”  He shuddered beneath her fingertips.  She was a monster.

Her hands stopped working and retreated.  “Are you alright?”

“No.”

Silence hung like a humidity in the air before a summer storm.  Neither of them spoke, neither knew what to say.

“Turn to the side,” Brienne finally said.  It was a request as much as it was a command, and Jaime obeyed.  She scooped more salve from the jar and worked it into his burned shoulder.  When she was satisfied with her work, she replaced the cap and he turned to face her.

“I thought I knew what I was doing,” he said.  The dam was breaking, and it both terrified and exhilarated him.  He wanted it out there - to say it would make it real.

“You are a competent commander, Jaime.  No one could have beat a dragon in the field.”

“No, not that.  Cersei.”

“Oh,” Brienne said.  He felt her pulling away.

“Olenna Tyrell told me that she was the one who poisoned Joffrey.  It wasn’t Tyrion.  Cersei just wanted Tyrion dead.”

“I thought you already knew that Tyrion didn’t do it.”

“I did,” Jaime said and sighed in exasperation, then ran his hand through his hair.  “But Olenna said more.  Cersei is mad.  She is sick.  She came to me after torturing prisoners in the dungeon.  She was unstoppable.  She fucked me because she had gotten to hurt people.  Just as Aerys did.  I will never forget Queen Rhaella’s screams.”

Brienne’s eyes were wide.  She was breathing fast, and her mouth had fallen open a bit.  Then she pulled him into her arms and crushed him against her.  He nuzzled his face into her shoulder and he felt his body let go, finally.  Her skin was warm and her arms were so strong yet comforting.

“It’s alright,” she said with a hitch in her voice.  Then she ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead.  “Lay down, get some sleep.  I will check on Bronn.”

 _No.  Don’t leave me._  But he nodded and laid back on the bed.

 

The sun had set before he heard the door creak open and Brienne slip back into the room.  The Maester had needed more sea salt, so she’d been down in the common room fetching some.  The people were talking the state of King’s Landing.

“News of your escape has spread.  They say that a group of surviving Lannister soldiers freed you.”  Tyrion was safe for now.  “And your sister yet holds the throne.”

Jaime rolled on his side and looked at Brienne sitting awkwardly on the bed next to him.  Of all the places he could have ended up, there was no one else he would rather be with.  He realized then that he would never leave her nor send her away again.  He scooted over to the far side of the bed and she took his meaning without him having to say anything.  She shed her cloak again and kicked off her boots and finally hung Oathkeeper on the bedpost.  Then she laid down stiffly next to him and stared at the ceiling.

“Do you have enough room?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you have too much room?”

She laughed then and elbowed him in his burned shoulder.

“Ouch.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “Perhaps you should wear a shirt to bed.”  She glanced over at him and gave him a withering look.  Then her face suddenly softened and she rolled on her side, closing the space between them.

He pulled her against him and brought his face to hers.  She rested her forehead against his and their noses nuzzled.  He thought he should be nervous or scared to be so close to her after years of keeping armor and desks and tables between them, but he wasn’t.  The way she touched him as her arm wrapped around his waist made him feel calm and grounded.  No one had ever touched him that way, except perhaps his mother.  Anyone else had always wanted something of him.  He brushed his lips against hers in the faintest of kisses.  Her blue eyes regarded him then, in the sliver of moonlight that came through the window.  She returned the kiss and then pulled him against her.  His leg drifted over hers and he closed his eyes and soon she was sleeping, snoring softly next to him.  He kissed her once more as he burrowed his face into her neck.  They slept until dawn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's that pipe dream. Hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading!


End file.
